


Who is Victor Trevor?

by ready_to_kick_some_ass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Drug Abuse, Dysfunctional Family, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, First Love, First Time, Frottage, Homophobia, Insecure Sherlock, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Past Domestic Violence, Past Relationship(s), Sexual Experimentation, Sherlock's Past, Victor is a nice guy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2018-12-13 09:36:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11757045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ready_to_kick_some_ass/pseuds/ready_to_kick_some_ass
Summary: Sherlock is reminded of his past in an unexpected way. While he wants to ignore it like he always used to, John urges him to finally reveal it. In the beginning arises a question, that Sherlock doesn't want to answer and that leaves John no peace: Who is Victor Trevor?***Excerpt from the current chapter***Victor nodded thoughtfully. Then he gently kissed Sherlock's tears away and pulled him close. "He has no idea," he muttered in Sherlock's ear. "Nobody has any idea how valuable you are. How talented. How admirable. You have no idea. But I’m going to tell you. Until you believe it yourself."Sherlock sobbed and buried his face in Victor’s neck.For a while they were just lying on the bed. Cuddled together and tightly entwined.





	1. Prologue

"Who is Victor Trevor?"  
  
Sherlock's hand freezes over the piece of paper on which he has drawn careful rows of notes that have slowly approached the finale of a symphony.  
His mouth opens briefly in mute astonishment.  
  
_Victor Trevor._  
  
The name resounds in his thoughts like a ominous echo. Invokes a series of unwelcome images, which he pushes back into the most remote chambers of his mind palace, with a touch of horror and panic.  
  
He looks up and swallows.  
  
John is standing in the doorway. His brow furrowed. There is a questioning expression in his warm eyes.  
"So?" He asks. Firmly.  
  
Sherlock swallows again. His throat is suddenly very dry.  
"Nobody," he says. He clears his throat. "He is nobody."

"Nobody," John repeats. He sounds sceptical.  
Then he suddenly pulls out a letter and holds it in the air. "And how can you get post from this Trevor then? You never get letters. Everyone ... writes you an email. Or me. And he used your full name ... "  
  
_How …_  
_That's impossible._  
  
Sherlock shrugs.  
"I don’t want to talk about him," he says. He looks down. The neatly arranged notes on the paper no longer make sense. They blur before his eyes.  
"It’s in the past, John. Irrelevant. Burn the letter ... "  
  
_Fire ... Flames running their way. Unstoppable. Consuming books, clothes and furniture ..._  
Sherlock shakes his head.  
  
"Burn it?" John stares disbelievingly at the seemingly harmless, inconspicuous paper in his hand. "Sherlock ... Okay. Who _is_ he?"  
Now John has _this_ tone in his voice. The firm tone that reminds Sherlock of the soldier within him. The tone that makes it unmistakable that John will not give in.  
  
"As I said, I don’t want to talk about him." Sherlock paints a tiny black dot in one corner of the paper.  
  
_Focus._

"I see." John frowns. His free hand clenches into a fist. Relaxes again. He licks his lips. Nervousness. Sherlock knows all the signs. He reads John like an open book. He doesn’t like what he sees.  
"Do we now keep secrets from each other again?"  
  
"No."  
_Yes._  
Of course, they have secrets. Sherlock can’t believe John seriously assumes there are no secrets in their relationship.  
John is only here with him because he doesn’t know all these secrets.  
Because he doesn’t know William.  
Because he doesn’t know ... Victor Trevor.  
  
Some things must remain secrets. Because otherwise, they would destroy everything.  
  
This is their life now.  
  
And Sherlock won't risk it because of a chapter of his past, which he has long since completed. Or _wants_ to have completed. There seems to be something that doesn’t allow him to finally get rid of it ...  
  
But he won’t give in.  
So he stays silent.  
  
The longer the silence lasts, the more the atmosphere between them seems to load with tension. It makes Sherlock even more restless.  
The black dot he paints on the note paper becomes bigger and bigger.  
  
He clears his throat softly. Because he can’t stand it anymore.  
He is not quite clear what is happening here.  
Is this his fault?  
Should he do anything?  
Or should he remain passive, because he didn’t want the past to stir?  
He doesn’t know.  
He feels overwhelmed.  
  
He looks at John and John ... looks away.  
  
_Oh._

"I’ll go and get some fresh air," says John. In his voice, confusion mixes with disappointment.  
  
_John. Wait._  
This is what Sherlock wants to say.  
But he doesn’t. He can’t.  
  
Instead, he lets John go and hears the door closing a bit later. A little too loudly.  
Sherlock swallows.  
  
John is angry.  
Of course he is angry.  
  
But he simply doesn’t know that it is better this way. Much better.  
  
John doesn’t want to know who Victor Trevor is.

  
  
*

  
Later, when they’re lying in bed, Sherlock puts his arm around John, who is leaning on his elbow with his back to him, reading some crime novel.  
  
He feels John tens slightly, and bites his lower lip.  
  
"John ..." He pushes his face into John's neck and breathes in the familiar smell there.  
This is the present. And the past doesn’t matter in this present.  
Why does John want to go back a step, when they only want to go forward? It's incomprehensible to Sherlock. Besides, the thought of the past makes him anxious and nervous.  
  
"You could shave again, you know. You scratch," John grumbles. He doesn’t really sound angry or offended anymore.  
  
Sherlock feels hope for a moment. Perhaps it’s already over and John has let it go.  
He smiles and squeezes a kiss into John's warm skin.  
  
John shudders and reaches back with a hand, into Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock closes his eyes comfortably.  
  
But then John says softly, "Why don’t you want to tell me who Victor Trevor is?"  
  
_That name ..._  
  
Sherlock opens his eyes and moves a bit away from John.  
Of course ... it's never that easy, is it?  
  
He shakes his head.  
"It's not important, John. He’s no one. He has nothing to do with us."  
  
John sighs and turns around. He rubs his forehead.  
"Look ... I just want you to be honest with me. I know that this is still very ... new. I know we're both very tense, because we have to re-interpret situations that are familiar to us. Because we have to put things in order." John smiles, and taps on Sherlock's nose with a finger. Light as a feather. "I love you. And you know that I love you with all your baggage that you’re carrying around with you. Your baggage from the past."  
  
_Your baggage_ _from the past ..._  
  
Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment. He doesn’t want this "baggage". It has long since passed in the stream of time. A collection of things that no longer belong to him. Which he wants to forget.  
  
"I didn’t burn the letter," John says softly, stroking Sherlock's shoulder now.  
  
Sherlock breathes in deeply and opens his eyes again. His gaze gets a bit dark. And John's hand movement stops for a moment.  
  
"I wish you had."

John sighs.  
"Sherlock ... I put it into your drawer. When you're ready - when you feel ready, we'll talk about this, allright?"  
  
"Mmh," Sherlock makes. Because he can’t say yes or no. It’s a dilemma. He can feel that this is important for John. It's too important for him to just drop it.  
  
John seems to be satisfied for the moment.  
He kisses Sherlock gently on the forehead and turns around again.  
Flips the page in his book.  
  
Sherlock stares at John's back and feels dizzy.

  
*

  
Sherlock can’t fall asleep.  
  
It isn’t a big surprise.  
It often happens that John sleeps deeply and firmly, while Sherlock stares at the ceiling and tries to arrange his thoughts.  
  
Today, the thoughts can’t be arranged.  
  
They form a mass of dark, painful, half-faded memories and vague words. Blend with his dull anger at this ridiculous situation.  
All this triggered by a single name.  
  
Absurd.  
  
He looks at John, who sleeps peacefully. On his back. His face relaxed and his mouth half open.  
A wave of love captures Sherlock and for a moment it pushes away every dark thought.  
He could put his head on John's chest. John will mutter something and put a hand in Sherlock's hair. This is how it always goes.  
  
And then, maybe, he could sleep.  
  
But today he doesn’t want to sleep yet.  
  
He is too afraid of what might haunt him in his sleep. Where he is completely unprotected. Exposed to his demons.  
  
He looks out of the window for a moment.  
The moon is full.  
The sky is clear.  
  
Then his eyes wander from the window to the table.  
  
_The letter …_

After some hesitation, Sherlock quietly opens the drawer.  
There, between some notes, a pencil, a tube of lube, and a key, is the letter.  
  
He takes it out with two pointed fingers. As if it was soaked in acid.  
He looks at the curved, elegant handwriting on the envelope. The ink shines in the moonlight.  
He stares at his own name, the letters only slowly becoming clear.  
  
William Sherlock Scott Holmes.  
  
_Why did you write me a letter_ , Sherlock thinks bitterly. _Why now._  
  
He rubs his face uneasily.  
  
_I can’t read this …_  
  
No. He can’t.  
Hastily, he puts the letter back into the drawer and closes it.  
  
John is moving easily next to him.  
Sherlock sighs.  
_Why now …_  
  
Finally, he approaches John and puts his head on his chest, which gently rises and falls. He can hear John's heartbeat. Even. Soothing.  
Maybe the demons will leave him alone tonight.  
John is his safe harbor. John will protect him.  
  
"Love?" John mutters indistinctly in his sleep. His hand gropes. Finds Sherlock's head and digs in his hair.  
"Hmmm," John makes softly and continues to sleep. He starts to snore a little and Sherlock smiles.  
  
He closes his eyes.  
  
This is their life now.  
The past is irrelevant.  
  
If only he could convince John that it is better this way ...


	2. Chapter One

_The fire is everywhere and there is no way out._  
  
_Smoke takes his sight and his breath away._  
  
_Panic creeps into every cell of his body._  
  
_Somewhere somebody calls his name. Barely audible._  
  
_He is disoriented. His hands grope around and grab into the nothingness._  
  
_Panic threatens to take over. Turns off all coherent thoughts._  
  
_No air …_  
  
_No escape …_  
  
_No –_

*

"Sherlock!"  
  
Sherlock wakes up with a soundless cry on his lips.  
  
He sits up in the bed and there is a dull pain in his back.  
  
For a moment, he stares into the void, taking shaky breathes.  
  
Only slowly, reality returns.  
  
The image of the fire in front of his eyes gives way to the gentle twilight that falls through the window.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
_John._  
  
Sherlock turns his head and looks into John's wide-open, worried eyes.  
"Are you allright? You ... you were screaming in your sleep."  
  
_Oh._  
  
Sherlock swallows. He lowers his head. Suddenly he feels light shame rising in him.  
"I ... it was a nightmare," he says softly, stating the obvious.  
  
John nods understandingly and lays a hand on his shoulder. "Do you want to talk about it?"  
  
Sherlock thinks about this for a moment.  
_Do I want to talk about it?_  
  
He hasn’t had this dream for a long time.  
It is another shadow from the past ... another memory he doesn’t want to possess. Another thing John doesn’t know.  
  
The thought of the letter in the drawer joins the mess in his mind.  
  
So much is hidden in his mind palace ...  
  
Too much.

 _I can’t keep John away from it all forever_ , Sherlock thinks. _I_ shouldn’t _keep him from it._  
  
_You can’t tell him_ , a voice whispers in his head at the same time. Admonishing. _He will despise you. Involuntarily. Maybe he won’t want it at all ... but you know it will happen. You know it._  
  
"Sherlock?" John asks again. His worried voice and the begging look in his eyes make Sherlock’s heart ache.  
  
_I cannot lie to him anymore ..._  
  
He swallows. Takes a deep breath. And then he says, "It was a nightmare about something that ... that happened in the past. I ... I haven’t had that dream for many years. It has come back. Perhaps because of the letter. I don’t know."  
  
Suddenly he feels tears rising into his eyes.  
  
John looks at him attentively. His gaze gets soft. "Come here," he murmurs, drawing Sherlock into his arms. Sherlock willingly sinks against John's warm chest. Closes his eyes. Breathes in John's familiar scent and clings to him as if John was a safe rock in an unpredictable storm.  
  
"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I'm sorry that I wanted to keep you out of it ... I can’t ... it's so hard to think about it, John. And I ... I'm afraid that ... that if you know ... "  
  
He cannot speak further.  
  
The thought is too painful.  
  
But John already understands. Of course he understands.  
"You're afraid I would turn my back on you, aren’t you? Oh Sherlock ... Nothing and no one can separate us now. You telling me about your past won’t change anything. The problems of your past are your business. The problems of your future are my privilege. I just think it might help you when you finally get rid of it, huh? Nightmares are a clear sign that something hasn’t really been processed yet. And your reaction to this letter ... "  
  
Sherlock nods and detaches himself from John to look at him.  
  
John's words have pushed back the fear in his heart, and made space for a mixture of affection, trust, and gratitude.  
  
"Sometimes I don’t know," he says softly, "if I deserve you."  
  
"You do," John replies seriously and honestly, looking directly into his eyes. "You really do."  
  
For a moment they just look at each other.  
  
Outside, everyday life begins slowly.  
  
People are talking to each other in the street while they are making their way to work.  
Somewhere, a dog barks.  
  
Light rain is falling.  
  
Finally, John says softly, "How about breakfast? And then we could sit down by the fireplace with a cup of tea and talk? "  
  
"Yes," says Sherlock. "Let's do that."  
  
"Allright. I'll be in the bathroom, yeah? "  
  
"Okay."

John stands up and grimaces when his back makes a loud crack. Then he laughs and winks at Sherlock. "Old men's problems, huh?"  
  
Sherlock smiles slightly and looks after John as he leaves for the bathroom, yawning.  
  
The room seems to be a little colder without John.  
  
He leans back against his pillow and sighs.  
  
He really meant what he said to John. Sometimes he doesn’t know whether he deserves him.  
John is ... _good_. John is, to be exact, perfect. He is friendly, faithful and helpful. Everybody likes him. Mostly straight away. He consists of this mixture of gentle and strong that manages to amaze Sherlock every day.  
  
And all this makes him doubt. John can assure him of the opposite, as often as he wants - the feeling never goes away completely. The feeling of not being enough.  
  
What is he in comparison to John? He isn’t a good person. He’s sure of that. Someone who throws away his life for a brief moment of bliss, who can’t be grateful for a family that cares - really cares – can’t be a good person, right? And there's so much more ... So much that it could fill a list.  
  
On top of that, people don’t like him. Apparently for good reason. No matter how much he tries, everyone turns away, confused or offended. It's always the same. Only a handful of people seems to be able to endure him for more than half an hour at a time.  
  
Sometimes he wishes that the invisible wall, which seems to exist between him and other people, would simply collapse. In the past, this wall wasn’t really a problem for him. It used to be ~~a~~ protection. But now, when he’s watching John talking and laughing with others, he wishes it away.  
  
Wishes to be ... normal.  
  
His gloomy thoughts drive away the warmth in the room even more ...  
He is already longing for John.  
  
He can hear the water rushing in the bathroom. And after a short hesitation, he also gets up.  
  
He doesn’t want to stay in the cold anymore ...  
  
  
*

John lets the hot water run over his body and sighs comfortably.  
  
He needed this.  
  
He can’t be without a shower in the morning.  
  
It is the first moment of the day where he can really relax and think calmly.  
Today, his thoughts are entirely filled with Sherlock and the nightmare.  
  
_Those screams ..._  
  
There was such a deep despair in those screams that John himself had felt a stab in his heart when he heard them.  
  
It was the first time he'd seen Sherlock having such a bad nightmare.  
  
They really have to talk about it ... Before it ends up getting worse. After all, John knew about nightmares.  
And about ... demons.  
  
He reaches for his shampoo.  
  
Just then, the door to the shower suddenly opens and Sherlock squeezes inside.  
  
John is a bit startled at first.  
  
"For God’s sake, Sherlock! Say something the next time, before you almost give me a heart attack, "he grumbles playfully angry, but then he laughs and pulls Sherlock's naked body closer.  
  
"Is everything allright?"  
  
"Hmm," Sherlock muffles at his shoulder. "No longer wanted to be alone."  
  
"Oh Sherlock ..."  
  
_He's obviously not well_ , John thinks worriedly, while he’s stroking Sherlock's back. _This letter ... This Trevor must have played a fairly large part in his past. And apparently not a very good one ..._  
  
Although he still doesn’t know anything about the matter, John suddenly feels a hint of rage rising up in him, and he involuntarily clenches his free hand to a fist.  
_If this Trevor hurt Sherlock, I hope that he doesn’t intend to show up here_ ..., he thinks coldly.  
  
"John ... too hot," Sherlock murmurs suddenly, and John is torn from his dark thoughts.  
He smiles and shakes his head.  
"You know very well that I'm not able to shower in the same arctic temperatures as you do! This is your own fault. You came in here, now you have to endure my way of showering. "  
  
"All right,” Sherlock sighs. But his smile reveals that he doesn’t really mind.  
  
John finally gets his shampoo and puts a generous amount of it into his hands.  
  
"Come on ... I'll wash your hair."  
  
  
*

At breakfast Sherlock is very quiet.  
  
Probably because their conversation is approaching ...  
  
This is what John assumes at least, and doesn’t urge him to speak.  
Instead, he talks cheerfully about a case they have recently concluded, and for once ended amusingly. With a fleeing thief who was stuck in a window.  
  
John and Lestrade had such a laugh at that time that the whole rest of the Yard had been shaking their heads at them.  
  
After three servings of toast with jam - _way too much jam_ , John thinks with a touch of bad conscience - he takes his cup of tea, and settles down in his chair.  
  
He calmly waits there instead of asking Sherlock to join him.  
  
He’ll leave his partner at his own pace.  
  
After a few minutes, Sherlock lets himself sink into his own chair opposite of John and sighs deeply.  
  
For a moment there is silence between them. Only disturbed by a crow screaming loudly outside.  
  
Finally, John asks softly, "So, how do you want to start? "  
  
Sherlock seems to think about it briefly, his head slightly lowered and his brows furrowed in concentration. Then he shakes his head and says softly, "It's not ... simple."  
  
John nods sympathetically. "I know. Take your time, ok? "  
  
"You must know that ... that I was a very different person back then, John," Sherlock says, closing his eyes for a moment. "I've done a lot wrong. That I am still here is the merit of other people. Mycroft is one of them. "  
  
John swallows. That sounds ... frightening.  
  
"I was so stupid," Sherlock says bitterly. He takes a sip of tea. Then he continues, "this whole chapter of my past I would rather close and never open again. But it is not that easy. I’ve been told several times and I know it only too well. Victor's letter ... it might just have come at the right time. Who knows."  
  
"Victor ...," John can’t keep the thought to himself. Can’t hold it back anymore. "Did that Trevor hurt you then? Was he the one who got you into drugs?"  
  
In the next moment he regrets his words. They seem to have startled Sherlock, because he stares at John with his mouth open.  
  
_Watson you idiot_ , John thinks and quickly says, "I'm sorry ... I ... just tell the story yourself, okay? At your own pace."  
  
"No, it’s allright. The thought seems likely," Sherlock says softly and smiles bitterly. "The thought that Victor was an asshole really seems likely, yeah."  
  
"So ... he wasn’t an arsehole?" John asks, blinking in surprise. "After your reaction to his letter I thought ..."  
  
"No, John," Sherlock interrupts him. He breathes in deeply. Closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, his look is stern. " _Victor_ wasn’t an arsehole," he says quietly.  
  
" _I_ was the arsehole."


	3. Chapter Two

_Then.  
  
_ One day in summer, that was so hot that the world was flickering in front of the windows, Sherlock Holmes collected his books, which had been scattered over the floor of the chemistry lab for the third time this week.  
  
His almost shoulder-length, curly hair – _you really need a haircut_ , Mycroft had said yesterday at dinner with a raised eyebrow. _Your hair grows like weeds_. – fell defiantly into his face, hiding the slight blush on his cheeks.  
  
He stretched out his hand for a book, whose back was a bit torn now, and wondered how he could have ever believed it would be different at university.  
  
Different from school.  
  
In the end, it had been naive self-deception.  
  
The only thing that had changed was the age and size of his tormentors.  
  
Now they were no longer spotty teenagers.  
  
They were half-grown, lanky men with stubble and dark shadows under their eyes from partying all night. Frustrated by failures. Intrigued by the possibility of getting rid of at least some of their accumulated stress.  
  
And Sherlock was an easy target.  
  
He always had been.  
  
Not just for frustrated, stressed young men.  
  
When he put his fingers on the book, there was suddenly another hand in his field of vision, holding out one of his notebooks.  
  
Sherlock froze. And hesitantly looked up.  
  
In front of him sat a young man with short, reddish hair. Freckles peppered his face, over which a crooked smile spread.  
  
"I thought you might need help," the stranger said in a calm, deep voice.  
  
Sherlock swallowed.  
  
Was it normal that he immediately felt a glimpse of suspicion?  
  
"Thank you," he muttered.  
  
"No problem. These guys are really bad. It is unbelievable that one can still behave like that at this age. They should be reported,” the young man said, scratching his neck.  
  
Sherlock did not know what to say.  
  
In his experience, speaking only made things worse.  
  
For a moment, silence prevailed. Somehow it was not unpleasant.  
  
Then he suddenly said, "By the way, I'm Victor. Victor Trevor."  
  
"William Holmes," Sherlock replied automatically. William was a name that did not elicit any raised eyebrows or disbelieving smiles. And he didn’t need that right now. Even if the name William evoked emotions in him with matching, unwanted memories ...  
  
_William! How often do I have to teach you how a young man of your lineage has to behave?_ Sherlock unwillingly shook his father's voice off.  
  
The smile on Victor's face grew wider.  
  
Their eyes met and something ... Something lay in the air between them. Something that made Sherlock nervous and strangely euphoric at the same time. He swallowed and forced himself to look away.  
  
Victor cleared his throat.  
"There's another book behind the trash can," he murmured, reaching for it.  
  
He pressed it into Sherlock's hand.  
  
Almost a little hurried. Fidgety.  
  
Then he straightened and cleared his throat again.  
"I better be going ... I have another class in a few minutes."  
  
"Mmh," Sherlock made and closed his bag.  
  
"So ..." Victor was now standing in the doorway and seemed to be undecided. Hesitant. Sherlock did not understand what was still holding him here. He couldn’t decipher the expression on Victor's face.  
"Maybe we’ll meet again ..."  
  
Sherlock doubted it, but he nodded. And managed a careful half-smile. "Maybe."  
  
In fact, _maybe_ was pretty soon. But he didn’t know that at the moment.  
  
~  
  
As Sherlock entered the door and wiped raindrops from his face, Mycroft stood in the kitchen, making pancakes.  
  
He was wearing an apron around his hips.  
  
Sherlock wondered how Mycroft's superiors would react if they saw him like this.  
The stiff Mycroft Holmes, always in a perfectly fitting suit. His face expressionless. His words clear and his tone commanding.  
  
The same Mycroft Holmes, bent over a pan, frowning, and with the sleeves of his cotton pullover rolled up.  
  
They would probably be very perplexed.  
  
Sherlock, on the other hand, was often relieved when he saw Mycroft like this.  
Because this side of Mycroft, he knew, was not part of the facade, he showed to others.  
  
"How was it?" Mycroft asked, flipping an already blackened pancake with a spatula.  
  
"What do you think?" Sherlock replied, opening the fridge and grabbing a piece of dark chocolate.  
  
Mycroft just sighed.

~

Later in the evening, Mycroft addressed THE topic again.  
  
The topic that had been hovering between them for days.  
  
"Have you ever thought more about looking for a place of your own?" He asked deliberately casually.  
  
Sherlock shrugged.  
  
Mycroft sighed. "Will - _Sherlock_ ... you're grown up. I think it would do you good if you were trying to become a little more … independent."  
  
Sherlock didn’t answer. How should he? He couldn’t put the many thoughts which formed in his head in a very clear picture into words. That was only one of the many problems he had when it came to communication.  
  
Mycroft watched him attentively. It seemed as if he knew exactly what was going on in Sherlock’s head. Sherlock could imagine. It would not be the first time.  
  
"Sherlock," Mycroft said urgently. "You know that what _He_ says is not true. How many times do I have to tell you? You are _not_ incapable. You are _not_ weak. You are what you want to be. You can be ~~it~~. If you allow it. Do you remember what Dr. Adams said?"  
  
"I should be the product of my own appreciation and convictions," Sherlock said mechanically. "Not the product of my father's ideas and words."  
  
In his head, he thought he heard a malicious laugh. He ran his hand over his face relentlessly.  
  
Mycroft took a sip of his tea. He looked at Sherlock urgently. "Get an apartment. Money, as you know quite well by now, doesn’t matter. And if you don’t want to be alone - find a roommate, Sherlock. That shouldn’t be difficult. There are certainly many young men, who are looking for someone. Write a note. That's how you do such things. I did that too. And it worked."  
  
Sherlock felt a trace of bitter amusement.  
  
_They are looking for someone, yes. But not for_ me _._  
  
"All right," he replied, to move on from the subject.  
  
"Good," Mycroft said and stood up.  
  
For a moment Sherlock was about to tell him about Victor.  
Victor Trevor, who had spoken to him. Who had smiled at him – a nice smile, not a mocking one. And whose look ... had triggered something in him.  
  
But before he could sort out his thoughts, Mycroft had already left the room.  
  
And Victor landed with his smile and his eyes - _green, they were green speckled with brown and they were gleaming_ ... - in one of his notebooks, which he hid under his mattress.

 

* * *

 __Now.  
  


"Mycroft and you ... you lived together?" John asks with astonishment clearly written on his face.  
  
Sherlock has spoken for a long time. Most of the time calmly and quietly. Sometimes a bit faster.  
John has been listening intently. And now he is almost overwhelmed by the mass of information.  
  
"Yes. Yes, we lived together. A while. At that time ... it wasn’t so complicated at that time," Sherlock says, looking out of the window thoughtfully. There is a light thunderstorm. Every now and then a lightning flashes the living room.  
"Besides, we also left my parent’s house together ..." Sherlock's face suddenly darkens.  
  
John swallows. Then he asks cautiously, "Your father. Was he …"  
  
"He had very precise ideas about how his family should work ..." Sherlock says softly. Calmly. "And if something - or someone - did not correspond to these ideas, then he made sure that ... that this anomaly, sooner or later, would fit in. He had his methods. Reliable methods." He strokes his right shoulder involuntarily.  
  
John sees it. And he feels nauseous.  
  
Suddenly, he remembers his early days in the hospital. When he didn’t have experience in looking after the sick and the desperate. At that time, people had often come to the emergency room - women, children, young men ... - and they had all looked at him in the same way. They looked at him with a numb expression in their eyes. One could call it disbelief mixed with realization. Bruises on the arms. Or on the legs. Sometimes in the face.  
  
_Domestic violence_ , he had called it. In silence.  
  
_An accident_ , they said to him. _Just an accident, doctor._  
  
Sherlock has never really spoken about his parents, he realises. Only small things. Fragments, here and there. And then mostly about his mother. His father has always been a vague shadow to John. Not comprehensible. Now he knows why.  
  
"I'm sorry," he says softly.  
  
Sherlock looks at him in surprise. "Why should you be sorry?"  
  
John knows from experience that he has to clarify his statement. "I'm sorry you had to go through that."  
  
"Oh. Yes. Well, he been dead for a long time now. His choleric nature probably brought him to his grave," Sherlock says matter of factly, taking a sip of his tea.  
  
John nods slowly.  
The new information circles in his head. So much of it is already so alarming. And sad.  
  
Well, at least with bullying, he knows what it is like.  
He had been a victim himself often enough.  
  
He wants Sherlock to know.  
"In school ... they also bullied me, you know. The big boys," he says. Sherlock looks at him attentively.  
  
"They mostly mocked me for my cheap clothes. Often there were holes in them. My family wasn’t rich ... Or it was my way of walking."  
  
"Your way of _walking_?" Sherlock asks, frowning. He sounds honestly surprised. "What's strange about it ...?"  
  
"I don’t know," John says, shaking his head. "Sometimes ... children can be cruel sometimes."  
  
Sherlock doesn't answer. He looks a little like he is about to get lost in his thoughts. John knows that look.  
"Let me guess," he says quickly, and Sherlock flinches a little. "Victor was looking for a roommate?"  
  
Sherlock looks at him in surprise and then smiles. "You're good, John. Yes, he did. In a strange way our paths have merged like two pieces of a puzzle. It was almost ... a little disturbing. But ... let me continue tomorrow, will you? I have to ... organise things. "  
  
"Yes. All right,” John says, sipping his tea.  
  
The thunderclouds passes over as Sherlock lowers himself deeper into his chair and closes his eyes.  
  
John looks at Sherlock's relaxed face and a wave of affection comes over him. But the affection is mixed with sadness and a touch of ... disbelief.  
  
There is more in Sherlock's past than he thought possible. Some of it would explain a lot. Of that he is sure.  
  
Questions in his mind ... questions he would hopefully get an answer to.  
Who was Dr. Adams.  
In what direction had that gone with Victor.  
Did Sherlock still have that notebook?  
  
Also, he already means to somehow understand why Sherlock had pushed him away from it all.  
A little.  
  
But until the whole puzzle is in front of them, it would still be a while.


	4. Chapter Three

_Then_.

_Am I in love?_  
  
The question accompanied Sherlock everywhere he went the next few days.  
Preyed on him.  
Confused him.  
Frightened him.  
Excited him.  
  
He couldn’t forget Victor Trevor.  
Couldn’t forget his eyes and his smile. Couldn’t forget the feeling that had flooded him when their fingertips had touched.  
  
At night, he lay in bed with his eyes open, wondering if Victor was thinking of him too. But the thought seemed so absurd to him the next moment that he laughed at himself for it.  
And yet …  
And yet there had been Victor's smile. His honest, open smile.  
His "maybe we'll see each other again."  
What did it mean?  
What?!  
  
Sherlock had never been in love. At least he believed so.  
  
He had so many questions he did not know the answers to.  
  
Could it happen so fast?  
So suddenly?  
In a fraction of a moment?  
Wasn’t love something that came gradually and increased slowly, step by step?  
  
And how could one know if the other one was in love too?  
Did he have the same feelings?  
The same thoughts?  
How likely was that?  
  
Various Internet tests promised him to be able to find all the answers he needed.  
  
But why should it be that easy?  
  
Nothing in life had ever been easy. Not for him.  
  
If his father had had his way, he would already be married. With a woman of "good" background, of course. No alternatives available. Not in his family. At the time, when he realized that women were not his area, he knew he would always have to pretend. To play a part. To wear a mask. His mother might have understood ... But she had died very early. Cancer. It had come quickly and had taken everything. Fast and precise.  
  
It had become so much colder after that.  
  
Cold in the whole house. Cold at dinner. Even his violin lessons had been steeped in the cold.  
  
He remembered his father's attempts to marry him into one of the many wealthy families, which they seemed to attract. His father, who was struggling to get away from the thought that was the only way to find a decent spouse. Mycroft, who was already studying, was lucky enough to escape the whole thing. Sherlock wasn’t.  
  
Dinner parties. Dancing. Wine. That was what many of his Sunday evenings looked like. Long hours of constant observation. Hours in which he was analyzed and assessed. Hours in which he had to pull himself together to fulfill his father's wishes. Hours in which he really felt like the proverbial bird caught in a golden cage ...

He remembered Ophelia and Victoria and what they were all called. They were all the same. Arrogant. Demanding. Selfish. Their parents had taught them a lifestyle that gave them the attitude that they were at the forefront of society. That they represented the opposite of the simple, despicable mob. That they deserved the best of the best and would always get it. They expressed everything that Sherlock's father would have loved to do with his sons. They disgusted Sherlock.  
  
He remembered sharp laughter and flirtatious winks and soft, silk-gloved hands on his skin.  
  
They were always enthusiastic about him. He saw it in their eyes, looking him up and down.  
  
But in the end, they left and never came back.  
  
Maybe it was his forced smile that did not reach his eyes.  
Or his repellent attitude.  
Or the simple fact that he did not want them, and they felt it at some point.  
  
Once, when he had hurried out the door, to catch some fresh air, like a fish that had escaped a jar of filthy, contaminated water, one of them had come after him - Anastasia was her name. Named after the Russian Tsar's daughter ... as if that had ennobled her automatically ...  
  
Anastasia had been more knowledgeable than the other women.  
Courageous.  
And unrestrained.  
She had pushed him against the wall and laughed at him. Her tight dress had slipped a little - on purpose? - and revealed a part of her red lace bra.  
  
Her intention was only too clear. But none of the women had behaved like this before.  
Overwhelmed by her energy he had let her do it - and then suddenly her hand had been on his crotch. Groping.  
He had stared at her in shock.  
And finally pushed her away.  
  
Her broad smile had faded, and her hot-tempered gaze had given way to an injured one.  
  
She took a step back and brushed a strand of hair from her face.  
  
He avoided her gaze.  
  
"Do you prefer men, or what?" She asked suddenly with a raised eyebrow. There was still something injured in her eyes, but now there was also a hint of curiosity. ~~~~

Sherlock froze.  
The hair on his neck rose as he realized what would happen if she talked about this. If she started rumors. If his father heard about it.  
  
"No," he said as calmly as possible. Meanwhile, he was sweating despite the cool autumn air. "No. I think ... it's the wine. Just the wine. I’m not used to it.”  
  
"Ah," she said. "Yes. Yes, that can happen. Well, at least you did not jump out of a window in your drunkenness, like my cousin."  
  
He did not know what to say to that.  
  
Panic still filled each of his cells.  
  
He looked up and saw a gapless starry sky. He swallowed.  
  
_Do you prefer men?_  
  
After a moment of hesitation, he put his arm around Anastasia, who laughed in surprise, then snuggled up against him. "I could certainly show you at least 5 zodiac signs up there," he muttered in her ear, trying to get a - hopefully warm – smile on his face. She giggled.  
  
And when she kissed him sometime, he returned the kiss.  
  
"You're a terrible kisser," she said soberly, giggling. "But with a bit of practice ..."  
  
Practice.  
  
He only nodded. His throat felt uncomfortably dry.  
  
Later, when the guests left, Sherlock's father called for him.  
Siger Holmes stood in his study, a glass of wine in his hand.  
His eyes were cold and thoughtful.  
When Sherlock entered the room hesitantly, he looked up and frowned.  
He slowly walked to Sherlock and cleared his throat.  
"Anastasia's parents have told me she was very pleased with you," he said, placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder lightly. "Unfortunately, that family does not really have the best reputation. Since that thing with her cousin happened ... " Siger grimaced. "Besides, I've learned that their financial state isn’t the best either. From now on I will not invite them anymore. What a shame."  
He sighed.  
It was an unhappy sigh. One that often preceded sudden outbursts of rage.  
Sherlock stiffened involuntarily. He felt sweat running down his neck.  
  
"I'm worried about you, William. Really worried." The hand on Sherlock's shoulder squeezed harder. The touch now balancing on a border between firm and painful. "Every woman rejects you, and once you're attracted to one, it's a bad match."  
  
Now the pressure on Sherlock's shoulder was definitely painful. His father's fingers pierced his flesh, and he was sure they would leave their mark. Like they did so often. He resisted the urge to get away and tried to breathe steadily through his mouth.  
Control the pain ...  
  
"Sometimes I think you might want to follow Uncle Rudy's example," Siger continued. He pronounced the name _Rudy_ like a curse. "Do you want that, William?"

"No," Sherlock said through clenched teeth. "No, father."  
  
His father's fingers tightened for a moment more and the pain became almost unbearable. Became white-hot.  
He stifled a groan.  
Any reaction could be the spark that triggered his father's outburst of rage. And that would mean far worse pain.  
It was far better to just endure this ...  
  
"Good. Because you know where he is now. Where men with ... such abnormal tendencies belong. Isn’t that right, William? "  
  
"Yes ... yes, it is, father."  
  
Siger nodded slowly. Then, finally, he took his hand off Sherlock's shoulder. He turned and looked out the window.  
"A man of your descent needs a suitable wife," he said quietly. "Do not forget that. Next time ... I do not want to experience such a disappointment."  
  
"Yes, father," Sherlock said, staring at the floor. The pain eased only slowly.  
  
"You can leave now."  
  
Sherlock left the study and rubbed his shoulder. It was burning and throbbing.  
  
The memory of this evening was so clear that he thought he could feel the pain years later when he lay in his bed thinking of Victor.  
  
Anastasia had had green eyes too ...  
  
Like Victor. Green speckled with brown.  
  
Sherlock felt his face getting warmer and shook his head indignantly.  
  
*  
  
The next day he hung a note on the blackboard of the chemistry faculty.  
  
" _Roommate wanted.  
  
I sometimes don’t talk for days and I __play the violin.  
You shouldn’t have any problems with that.  
  
Please don’t be boring.  
  
Sherlock Holmes_. "  
  
_Nobody will answer anyway_ , Sherlock thought, and wrote his cellphone number on the ridiculous note.  
  
And if he was honest, he did not want anyone to call.  
  
Because that would mean that he had to leave the relative safety of Mycroft's house.  
  
And he didn’t know if he was ready for this ...

*  
One day later, someone called.  
  
It was Victor.  
  
"Hello, Sherlock," he said.  
  
And Sherlock's heart seemed to miss a beat.

 

* * *

  _Now._

   
John is standing by the window, hands clenched into fists.  
  
Sherlock looks at him nervously from the chair.  
  
He senses what’s going on in John’s mind.  
  
But ... there is no point in getting upset about it.  
  
It’s in the past.  
  
And there is nothing left to change.  
  
"John," he says softly.  
  
John exhales audibly.  
  
Then he turns around.  
  
His eyes are full of heat. Anger and disbelief written on his face.  
  
"John," Sherlock says again.  
  
But John shakes his head.  
  
"How long?" He asks quietly. "How long until you got out of there?"  
  
Sherlock swallows. He looks at the teacup in his hand. The tea has been cold for a while.  
"I ran away for the first time at the age of 19," he says softly. "I could not stand it anymore, I did not have anywhere to go, I did not have any money, I did not have anything with me, only the certainty that I could not do it anymore. Afterwards, I wondered why I did not go to Mycroft right away, but ... it was difficult back then, I'm getting to that part of the story later, all right? "  
  
John looks at him. He licks his lips nervously. Then he shakes his head in disbelief.  
"Sherlock ... that's domestic violence. Do you actually know how many times I have to treat someone at the clinic who ... You should have ... someone should have called the police, damn it! I do not want to know ... he did much worse than that, didn’t he?"

“Yes. Oh yeah. That was nothing." Sherlock smiles weakly. "That was just ... for him it was an expression of his concern about me."  
  
"Expressing his concern!" John spits out and starts pacing up and down in front of the window. "Why did you stay there so long? There with this ... this arsehole?! Christ, Sherlock. Why …"  
  
"Why didn’t I do anything?" Sherlock asks bitterly. "Well ... maybe because he was my dad and I trusted him somehow and I believed him when he told me that it was my own fault. Because I disappointed him ... Because I didn’t listen to him.”  
  
He shudders. So many memories come to the surface with these words. He can barely push them away. There’s a whole room in his mind palace, filled with those memories of his past. And they want to escape. He can feel it.  
  
John looks at him and his look suddenly softens. He goes to Sherlock and gently puts his hands on his shoulders. "Hey. It wasn’t your fault, ok?"  
  
Sherlock swallows hard. "I always thought ... I thought that if I tried harder then he would be satisfied. At least once. But the older I got, the more I realized that he would never be satisfied. That he would never look at me with the pride with which he sometimes used to look at Mycroft. That no matter what I would do, he would only see a disappointment in me. Sometimes that hurt more than the punches or the words."  
  
John nods. He closes his arms around Sherlock. Presses him to his chest and places his chin on Sherlock's head. "You're not a disappointment," he whispers. "You are a wonderful person. A wonder. He had no idea ... "  
  
They stay like that for a while.  
Enjoying the warmth of each other, while outside, the sun breaks through the clouds.


	5. Chapter Four

_Then._

In the end, it was natural.  
  
Happened almost casually.

They were just standing in the middle of their common room, surrounded by suitcases, a little embarrassed and without words - and the next moment, they were drawn together. Like two poles that approached, met and could not be separated.  
  
Sherlock felt comfortable in Victor's presence.  
More comfortable than he had ever felt with anyone.  
Within moments, Victor took away all the fears he had brought into this new situation.  
  
All the tormenting thoughts that had kept him from sleeping the last few nights he'd spent at Mycroft's house, proved to be unfounded. Sheer shadows. Illusions.  
  
On the first day, Victor smiled at him and said, "Hello, William."  
  
Sherlock swallowed. Once again, the name William gave him goose bumps. He said quickly, "Sherlock, please. I prefer Sherlock. My, uhm, middle name."  
  
And then he had waited. For the inevitable laugh. For the raised eyebrows and the half-incredulous, half mocking glance.  
  
But Victor just scratched his head and said, " _Sherlock_? I've never heard that name before!"  
  
"My mother's choice. She had a fondness for unusual names," Sherlock said, looking aside.  
  
"It suits you," Victor said.  
  
"What?" Sherlock asked, perplexed.  
  
"The name Sherlock. It suits you," Victor repeated, smiling broadly. The smile reached his green eyes and made them shine.  
  
And Sherlock felt an unfamiliar warmth which filled him from the inside.  
  
He returned the smile.  
  
*

The time they spent together increased steadily.  
  
It seemed as if they were complementing each other in a secret way.  
Like the pieces of a puzzle.  
  
They took the same courses if they could.  
  
They walked across the campus together. Almost shoulder to shoulder.  
  
They ate together and were watched by Sherlock's former tormentors; whose looks were a mixture of disbelief and astonishment. Sherlock was now inaccessible to them, that they knew. He was no longer a target.  
  
In those moments, Sherlock realized in amazement, that he was no longer alone. It was hard to understand. Hard to accept. He had always been alone in some way. Separated from his peers by an invisible wall. Sometimes, when he despaired about his apparent nonexistence, even the mockery had been better than the depressing feeling of not being noticed by anyone.  
  
Now there was Victor, who saw and appreciated him.  
  
Sherlock did not quite understand why. The years had made him careful. Suspicious. Often enough he had been the target of "jokes" like false birthday party invitations.  
  
But Victor seemed serious.  
  
And one night, when they stumbled into their room, giggling and tipsy from alcohol, Victor's lips were suddenly on his. Gentle and careful. The contact only volatile. So swift that Sherlock briefly thought it was an illusion. But then he saw Victor's eyes, in which there was an unspoken question. And heat. So much heat ...  
  
Sherlock nodded and Victor exhaled audibly. Then he kissed Sherlock again.  
  
This time longer, more intense, more emphatic. His hands stroked over Sherlock's face, his hair, his neck. Sherlock sighed into the kiss. He felt strangely light. Detached.  
  
Later, as they lay on Sherlock's bed, and looked in each other’s eyes, Victor said quietly, "I felt it. Somehow I felt it. I know, it's far-fetched to talk about something like providence. But ... it was like that. It was like that."  
  
And Sherlock nodded.  
"I know," he breathed. "I felt it too."  
  
Victor ran a warm hand through his curls. Sherlock closed his eyes.  
And when Victor whispered, "Do you want that? Do you want to be with me?", He breathed: "Yes."  
  
*

When he had previously imagined a relationship, Sherlock had been sure that his partner would be focused on things that were completely "normal" to young people ... parties, alcohol, sex. And he had known that he would not be able to keep up. Another reason why he considered himself unfit for a relationship.  
  
But Victor also surprised him here.  
  
Victor did not want to dance in clubs to loud music, or get drunk and turn night into day.  
  
Victor wanted to go for long walks. He wanted to sit in quiet cafés and conduct profound discussions. Victor was happy with kisses, touches and cuddles before falling asleep.  
  
He was an attentive conversation partner. When he listened attentively, he tilted his head slightly, frowning a little and putting a finger to his chin. It was a sight that filled Sherlock with deep affection.  
  
They talked about so many things ...  
  
About their wishes and dreams. About their worldviews, which magically coincided. Pleasant topics.  
But there were areas that set Sherlock before dark abysses.  
  
Once, Victor started talking about his family. His mother and father were still alive. He was an only child. He had grown up in the countryside and had a fulfilling childhood. His parents had stood behind him at every decision. And when he had told them that he was gay, they had hugged him and asked if there was already a partner they could meet.  
  
Sherlock listened and he could not prevent a faint pain from creeping into his chest, which grew stronger and stronger. At some point, he could not look Victor in the eyes anymore. He stared down at the barely-touched cheesecake on his plate. He swallowed hard.  
  
Once again, he felt like he could hear his father's voice in his head ...  
  
_Why can’t you be more like your brother?_  
  
_Why did your teacher call me again?_  
  
_Why are you such a disappointment, William?_  
  
_Why.  
  
Why …_  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
Sherlock startled and looked right into Victor's worried eyes. "Is everything all right?"  
  
"I ..." Sherlock bit his lower lip nervously.  
  
_Why, William?_

He unconsciously scratched his elbow. Where all the scars were hidden under his long sleeves. The signs of his ... weakness. Panic rose in him and began to take his breath away. Sweat gathered on his forehead. Suddenly it seemed to him that the world was turning around him. He felt dizzy.  
  
_You are a disappointment to me. Sometimes I really wonder if you are my son at all, William ..._  
  
He gasped and jumped up. He bumped against the table and plates rattled.  
Tea splashed from his cup onto the tablecloth.  
  
_Unteachable.  
  
Weak.  
  
Worthless.  
  
So worthless ..._  
  
He stammered an apology and hurried out of the cafe.  
Outside, he breathed in the fresh air heavily. He sat down on a nearby bench and buried his face in his hands.  
  
_You idiot ... Now he might_ _finally realize what kind of freak you are. Now he will realize that it was a mistake to get so close to you ...  
_  
Sherlock could not stop tears from forming in his eyes. He sobbed. All the thoughts he had successfully pushed back in the last few days came back again. Tormented him.  
  
And then suddenly, there were hands on his shoulders.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
He flinched and blinked through his fingers. Victor knelt before him, his eyes wide and still full of open, honest concern.  
  
_Why is he worried.  
He should be disappointed ..._  
  
"Please ... Please go. I ... you should not ...," Sherlock stammered and his words ended in a sob.  
  
_Pathetic ....  
_  
Victor's hands disappeared from his shoulders. Sherlock was almost relieved.  
  
Finally. Now he will go. Nothing will ever change ...  
  
But Victor did not leave. Instead, he sat down next to Sherlock on the bench and gently put his arms around his quivering body. "I'm here," he said softly. "I'm here and I'm not leaving. And if you are ready, then tell me what’s wrong. You can tell me anything."  
  
Sherlock dropped his hands and stared at Victor in disbelief. A tear fell from his chin.  
  
Victor smiled warmly at him. "It's OK. If you have to cry, just let it out. It will help ... "  
_  
Oh God. Why? Why is he so ... so ... so_ perfect _?!_  
  
The next moment, Sherlock could not hold back anymore. He sank against Victor's chest, buried his face in the warm fabric of his jumper and wept.  
  
Victor's hands brushed his back. The whole time.  
  
The whole time.

___________________

_Now._

John is sitting in his chair, his hands lying lightly on the armrests.  
His expression has something thoughtful.  
The shadows of the fire in the fireplace dance over his calm face.  
  
Sherlock looks at him, taking a sip from his tea.  
His throat is dry from talking.  
  
John stretches his neck. Puts his head from one side to the other. It crackles audibly.  
  
Sherlock swallows. "Are you jealous?" He asks softly.  
  
He could understand. Even expects it.  
  
After all, he has just told in every detail how he has kissed another man. And that's not the only thing he's experienced with Victor for the first time.  
  
He remembers his own jealousy that seized him every time John came home with a woman. The jealousy was hot and angry. It hurt.  
  
Does John feel the same way now?  
  
But John shakes his head the next moment.  
"No," he says softly. "I'm not jealous. I ... I'm glad."  
  
"You’re glad?" Sherlock asks in surprise.  
  
"Yes. I am happy for you. That you found someone who ... who could catch you in such a difficult time. It's good."  
  
Sherlock looks thoughtfully out the window. "Yes," he finally says. "You're right. Victor came at the right time. I was ... I was unstable back then. Nobody had to tell me that. I knew it myself. I still had contact with my therapist during that time. And Mycroft checked on me regularly. But Victor ... Victor really caught me. In a way nobody else could have done."  
  
John nods. He smiles. "How did Mycroft actually react?"  
  
Sherlock laughs softly as he remembers. "He paid Victor one of his visits. Oh, it was not as dramatic as your first talk with him," he says quickly, as John raises his eyebrows and evidently remembers his “kidnapping” back then. "He came to our room when I was not there."  
  
"What did he say to Victor?" John asks eagerly.  
  
Sherlock ruffles his hair thoughtfully. "That he should not hurt me," he says softly.  
  
John nods slowly. "And what did Victor answer? Do you know?"  
  
"Yes. Victor said he would never do that, "Sherlock replies. Then he swallows, and his expression changes to something painful.  
  
"Hey," John says immediately in concern and goes to him. Lays his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. "What's wrong?"  
  
Sherlock immediately feels reminded of Victor. He puts a hand to his forehead and takes a deep breath. "I just ... he really never hurt me, John. But ... I hurt him ... I hurt him so bad."  
  
Sherlock feels tears rising in his eyes. Another echo from the past.  
  
John is there and hugs him. Holds him tight.  
  
The pain seems to rip him apart as he remembers.  
Everything that happened. Everything he did.  
Everything that separated him and Victor …


	6. Chapter Five

Once he had started talking, Sherlock couldn’t stop.  
The words just spilled out of him.  
They might have been able to fill a whole book.  
  
And Victor listened.  
  
They were lying on the bed in their little room, facing each other. Victor said nothing. He just listened. His face calm and neutral. One of his hands in Sherlock’s hair.  
  
And the longer Sherlock spoke, the more he realized how his heart was getting lighter.  
It was true. He really felt better. Getting rid of all the ballast felt like a liberation.  
  
He told Victor  
about the time when he had problems at school regularly. He had never gotten along with his classmates. It had always been like there was something between them ... that invisible wall. But this wall had not stopped the other kids from harassing and provoking Sherlock. Too often the teachers had called Sherlock's father and complained. And the punishment had not always been confined to house arrest. Tirades mixed with beatings were not uncommon.  
  
He told Victor  
about the time he realized he was not interested in girls, but boys. It was a time that had been defined by fear and excitement at the same time. He had known what would happen if his father found out. That was not allowed to happen. No way. And so, he had become more and more creative in finding hiding places for certain magazines or pictures. He had also become quite good at hiding himself. By playing a role. By camouflaging his thoughts and dreams. But this game of hide-and-seek, which he hadn’t known the end of at the time, filled him with deep sadness.  
  
He told Victor  
about the time when he finally could not stand it anymore and just jumped on the next bus - away, he wanted to go. Just away. Forever. Away from the pressure, the hiding, the harassment. He had nothing with him. Neither money nor a goal. And the matter ended accordingly. He had had to go back after a short amount of time. He had stood in front of the door like a dog with its tail between its legs. And when his father had opened, looking at Sherlock from above – cold and firm - he had known what was blossoming. It was the worst beating he had received so far. He had not been able to lie on his back for several days.  
  
And all the words ...  
All the disappointment in his father's eyes.  
Always present.  
All the shame.  
All the self-doubt he developed.  
All the times he stood in front of the mirror and considered himself worthless.  
He had never been good enough.  
The black sheep of the family ...

The longer you hear something, the more you believe it yourself.  
  
At some point during his recollection, tears started flowing down Sherlock's face. He did not even realize it.  
  
When he fell silent, exhausted, Victor asked softly: "So your father still doesn’t know that you are gay?"  
  
"No." Sherlock smiled bitterly. "If he knew, I would definitely have been dead to him."  
  
Victor nodded thoughtfully. Then he gently kissed Sherlock's tears away and pulled him close. "He has no idea," he muttered in Sherlock's ear. "Nobody has any idea how valuable you are. How talented. How admirable. You have no idea. But I’m going to tell you. Until you believe it yourself."

Sherlock sobbed and buried his face in Victor’s neck.  
  
For a while they were just lying on the bed. Cuddled together and tightly entwined.  
  
It was like a silent agreement when they started undressing each other. They struggled with sweaters and trousers. Pulled unruly socks off their feet - with amused smiles on their faces. The clothes landed carelessly on the floor. All attention was directed to the desire to be as close as possible. To feel the warmth of each other.  
  
They nestled as close together as possible. Skin rubbing against skin.  
Their faces turned to each other, breathing the air of each other.  
  
Victor's eyes moved across Sherlock's face. One of his hands gently stroked Sherlock's cheek.  
"Your eyes," he mumbled. "They are so extraordinary. Sometimes they are like liquid silver. But then suddenly they are speckled with gold and green and blue."  
  
"My dad said heterochromia is a disease," Sherlock said after a moment of hesitation. He did not want to destroy the mood. But there was a yearning in him for Victor to banish this spectre as well. "He said maybe someday I'll get blind because of it. Said it just makes me more abnormal."  
  
Victor shook his head and stroked Sherlock's hair.  
"No. No, it is not abnormal. It makes you even more unique than you already are. Unique, Sherlock. You are absolutely unique."  
  
_Unique._

A word that Sherlock had never associated with himself. Victor used it so naturally. So ... convincing.  
  
Maybe ... Maybe Sherlock could really believe it too someday?  
_That would be nice_ , Sherlock thought and closed his eyes in comfort as Victor placed a soft kiss on his forehead.  
_It would be nice to be able to stand in front of the mirror someday, without self-doubt and the feeling that something is missing that would make me complete ..._

Victor's lips - his soft, warm lips - started a slow way from Sherlock's forehead, to his chin, down his neck, over his chest ... They stopped at his nipples. Pressed a kiss on the left, then one on the right.  
Sherlock let out a shaky breath.  
He could feel Victor's smile on his skin.  
And then his lips slid down even further.  
Kissed the skin just above his belly button.  
  
It tickled, and Sherlock couldn’t suppress a breathless giggle. It was a sound that would otherwise had seemed silly to him. But not with Victor. Everything felt natural with Victor.  
Victor grinned and looked up. There was a question in his eyes.  
A question he pronounced the next moment.  
"Should I continue?"  
  
Sherlock swallowed. He looked down at his half-hard penis, which pressed lightly against Victor's thigh. He felt his cheeks getting hot and was aware that he was blushing. They had never gone this far. He felt excited and slightly embarrassed at the same time. But they were not really unpleasant feelings. There was also a slight curiosity in him ...  
  
"It's okay if you want to stop," Victor said. "Really, Sherlock. You know ... you know that it would be the first time for me too. We’ll go slowly. We have time."  
  
Sherlock looked at Victor's wide-open eyes, which were full of love and understanding, and smiled. He trusted Victor. He trusted him so much ...  
"Go on."  
  
"You’re sure?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Okay."

Victor lowered his head and pressed a kiss on Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock's muscles trembled slightly in response. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.  
It was a small shock when Victor's lips touched the shaft of his penis and he gasped in surprise.  
Victor stopped. "Everything alright?" He asked. His voice was a bit rough. Excited.  
  
"Yes," Sherlock muttered, frowning. "Yes. It's ... it's a lot. "  
  
"I know," Victor said, and there was a smile in his voice. "Relax, okay?"  
  
"Hmm."  
  
Victor bent his head down again. His warm breath tickled Sherlock's skin. He seemed to hesitate.  
Then he gently licked the entire length of the erection in front of him. He stopped at the tip, where he placed a careful kiss.  
  
"Oh. Oh god." Sherlock's eyes narrowed. A tingling sensation seized his whole body, went down his spine all the way to his toes. His hands firmly clutched the bedsheets.  
  
"Good?" Victor asked. "Does it feel good?"  
  
"Fantastic," Sherlock gasped. He felt sweat forming on his forehead.  
  
"Okay," Victor said breathlessly. "Okay. Then I guess I’m doing it right."  
And without warning he put his lips around Sherlock's cock and sucked gently.  
Sherlock groaned and had to make an effort not to push his hips up into Victor’s mouth.  
  
Warm. So warm …  
His whole body shook, as the warmth filled his every cell.  
His cock throbbed in Victor’s mouth, getting even harder.  
The lust consumed him.  
Made it difficult to think. But that was all right. In this moment he didn’t want to think.  
He just wanted to _feel_.  
  
Reflexively, he felt for Victor with one hand. Found his soft hair. Grabbed it and held on.  
"Victor," he gasped. "Victor ..."  
  
Victor made a satisfied sound and put one of his hands over Sherlock's. Squeezed lightly. Then he cautiously slid down a little further, taking in as much of Sherlock's cock as he could. He used his free hand to cover the rest. Stroked it with slight pressure. Experimented a bit.  
  
It was almost too much.  
  
Sherlock felt light and heavy at the same time. He was so warm ... Fine drops of sweat ran down his neck as he writhed under Victor helplessly. His heart was pounding fast and hard in his chest. He was unable to hold back the sounds that came from his throat. His moans echoed in the small room where it was otherwise completely silent.  
  
Victor stopped at some point. Untangled himself from Sherlock to take a breath. Sherlock looked up at him with half-open, hazy eyes. Victor was a breathtaking sight. His hair was tangled and hung in his flushed face. A fine string of salvia hung in one corner of his mouth. His lips were full and red.  
  
God. Sherlock loved him.  
  
Victor smiled warmly at him. "Good?" He asked again.  
  
"God yes," Sherlock said breathlessly. "Why didn’t we do that much sooner?"  
  
Victor laughed.  
He stroked his sweaty face.  
"Should I continue? Or should we try something different?"

"What?" Sherlock asked curiously.  
  
Victor grinned crookedly. "Wait a moment."  
  
He rose slightly, and Sherlock saw his erected cock. It was long, thick and red. A fine drop of pre-ejaculate was visible at the top. Sherlock swallowed and licked his lower lip.  
Victor was in this condition because of Sherlock.  
Was aroused because of him.  
The thought filled him with a peculiar mixture of happiness and triumph.  
  
Victor cautiously lay down on top of Sherlock and adjusted himself until their erections touched.  
  
"Oh god," Sherlock said quietly, taking a deep breath.  
  
"Yes," Victor muttered, closing his eyes. "Oh God …"  
  
He began to move slightly, letting his hips circle carefully.  
Sherlock groaned and wrapped both arms around Victor. Held on to his shoulders. Pressed against him as closely as possible. Victor gasped and pressed his lips to Sherlock's neck. Sucked and bit lightly at some point. Sherlock moaned his approval.  
  
The lust continued to build as they moved, seizing them in gentle yet violent waves.  
  
And there was so much more than pleasure.  
  
Sherlock felt a bond forming between them. A different bond than before.  
A bond of a certain kind of trust and intimacy.  
  
He felt safe and secure as he felt Victor around him. Their hands stroked over each other's bodies. Restless, searching, finding.  
They held each other tight as the pleasure consumed them.  
  
Victor was the first to come and when his orgasm overwhelmed him, he moaned into Sherlock's mouth, kissing him stormily and taking him over the edge with him.  
  
Sherlock's orgasm was almost painfully good. He clawed at Victor's back and gasped as the waves began to dwindle.  
  
And then they lay there, clinging to each other. Heavily breathing. Sweating.  
At some point Victor said softly, "I love you."  
  
Sherlock let out a shaky breath. "I love you too."  
  
"That was fantastic. But somehow everything is sticky now," Victor explained soberly after a few seconds.  
  
"Well. I guess that’s a common effect of ejaculate," Sherlock replied dryly and smirked.  
  
They looked at each other - and started to giggle.  
"Gosh, we're like teenagers," Victor said, slowly pulling away from Sherlock. He looked down at the half-dried semen that covered his abdomen and wrinkled his nose slightly.  
"Goodness, just look at this mess!"  
  
"As if I alone was responsible for it!" Sherlock said with a grin. "Stop admiring yourself and get us some towels."  
  
"Bossy git." Victor got out of bed on his shaky legs and went naked to the bathroom. Sherlock looked after him dreamily. Admiring the sight of Victor’s arse.  
  
He felt a bit drowsy. He buried his face in a pillow and sighed.

So that was sex.  
  
Not ... not what he had expected.  
  
Life has been full of surprises lately.  
_Victor_ was full of surprises.  
  
What would be the next?  
  
And for the first time in a long while, Sherlock looked positively into the future.

**Author's Note:**

> Say hello on [Tumblr](http://currently-in-my-mind-palace.tumblr.com/) :)  
> Beta: [bakerstreet-irregular](http://bakerstreet-irregular.tumblr.com/)


End file.
